Need
by Jubalii
Summary: He knew what she needed. But needs change.


He was like a drug, and he knew what she needed.

That's why he never spoke, not even to acknowledge what they were doing as they slipped down, one after another, to the dungeons.

A slimy act deserves a slick, mildewed place to perform it in. Their office would not do.

He knew she needed to relinquish control, for someone to take the mantel from her for a few scarce moments, to pin her hips against a rough stone wall and fuck her without mercy.

He knew she needed to get out her aggression, even if he didn't know the source of it. All her clawing and biting was taken in stride, so long as she made sure it was kept where no one else would see. Even then, if she strayed too far, he only moved his head out of reach silently. Even his grunts were muffled, as were her hisses.

He knew she needed it quick and dirty, neither of them shedding more than the necessary clothing, his armor rubbing against her leather. She needed it, to be roughed up, bruised, taken and used completely every so often. Sometimes months, even full years went by without her standing and motioning to him.

Sometimes it was only a fortnight.

Nine times, scattered along the years, they met and coupled. Quick; they were in and out in less than a half-hour. She would leave first, her hair straightened and clothes back in place with minimal effort. Sometimes he would go to the garrison, but more often than not he'd go back to their office after recovering. They would look briefly at each other, dismissively, neither showing any affection, or remorse, or shame. It was just an act. For her, it was stress relief. She couldn't say what purpose it served him. None seemed to notice the stains on the wall, nine times of pulling out before completion.

They weren't in a mood to test fate, to have more ties between either of them besides those of superior and subordinate.

Why, then, was the tenth time different?

She felt it, even as she initiated the eye contact and made her need known. Even as he stood, set aside his work, and followed her to the dungeon cell. Even as he made sure they weren't followed, before turning around and loosening his belt. Even as she slipped off her undergarments and let him pick her up and push her against the wall.

He sensed it, then, as well.

His eyes slid up to hers, face impassive. She stared back, somehow not feeling in the mood to be bruised. But she still wanted him.

"Milady." It was little more than a breath, released slowly.

"What's in this for you, Barnham?" Her voice seemed loud after nine times of silence. "Am I just a hot body to you? Stress relief? Something to pass the time?" He lowered her back to the ground, eyes never leaving hers until his head dipped. His breath was hot against her ear.

"I live to serve you… in any way that I might." His hands guided her hips up and entered her, cold metal gauntlets between her and the wall. Her arms went around his neck automatically, striving to achieve some balance as he began to move.

Her first moan was magical; his answer gasp even more so.

She met his hips eagerly, trying to speed the slow rhythm he kept between them. Her head rested against his shoulder, golden fingers playing in his hair as she fought to keep her voice down. It was smoother, kinder, his hips rolling against hers instead of slamming, his arms tensing to bring her closer, not push her away. She arched her back, mewling like an animal in heat and unable to keep her eyes open. His head bent to her breasts, flushed face hot against the leather as he teased.

This could not be; _they_ could not be. He'd suspect something and unravel the fabricated world they lived in, or he'd see a Shade and assume. The Knights weren't supposed to have liaisons, in any case. But as she pulled his shoulders closer and ran her tongue over the exposed skin of his neck, she did what she was best at: pretending. For a moment, she was his and he hers, they were not in a dungeon but in her bedroom, or his, and they were justified in their actions.

For the first time, she was ashamed of being in the dungeon.

Her orgasm came upon her before she could stop it, harder than she'd ever had with him. She bit his neck without thinking, desperately trying to muffle the sound of her soft cries as he sped up within her. Foolishly, she wished that he'd forget himself and let her feel him come apart inside her, but true to his nature he added time #10 to the wall behind her. He didn't, however, immediately drop her as he had nine times before. Instead he pressed his forehead against hers, their breaths and sweat mingling as they came back to earth.

"Zacharias."

It was a simple matter to press her lips to his. He moved against her, kissing her gently.

When he pulled away, their eyes met again and she could see the same convictions shining in their depths. He knew as well as she did that it could never work between them, not in the way either of them wanted. He swallowed, pulling his breeches back up and putting her feet back on the ground with a motion that was almost tender.

She fixed herself as usual, brushing her hair back into place and pulling her underwear over her thighs, ignoring the wet sensation lingering between them. They looked at each other and he sat on the crude wooden bench, waving a hand at her to go first. She nodded and turned away, walking out of the cell and up into the light of the Courthouse.

The sound of a fist hitting stone was just her imagination, as the sound of her suppressed sob was his.

* * *

 **Afterword:** BOY HOWDY DO I LOVE TO SUFFER.


End file.
